


Another Time

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1950s, AU - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:18:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>‘That is plainly </i>not<i> news that the public should have any interest in. News is the Soviets being up to something, or a nice murder, </i>not<i> me being able to play Bewitched, Bothered and bloody Bewildered on my violin!’</i></p>
<p>
  <i>Mrs Hudson patted his back soothingly and put the bottle of milk that had been sitting on the counter since John had left for work back in the fridge. ‘When’s Doctor Watson due home, dear?’</i>
</p>
<p>Summer, 1951, six years after the war's end. John is a well-regarded doctor working for the NHS, whilst Sherlock's consulting detective business is making him something of a household name. Moriarty decides it's time for him to make his move.</p>
<p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/12656">Long Ago and Far Away</a>.</p>
<p>
  <b>Additional warnings in the author's note.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Time

**Author's Note:**

> I knew I wouldn't be able to leave this alone. This sequel will take more inspiration from the BBC canon in terms of plot than _Long Ago_ did, but it certainly won't be identical to the episodes. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> **Additional warnings** for very ambiguous consent in this chapter.

_Summer, 1951._

‘I’ll see you this evening?’ John fastened the buttons of his brown suit jacket before combing his hair into place, checking his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace.

‘Mm, unless something comes up,’ Sherlock replied, bent over his microscope, his silk dressing gown hanging elegantly on his form. He reached out blindly for something, fingers grabbing at thin air.

‘I think all London’s criminals must have gone on their summer holidays,’ John said, pushing the handle of Sherlock’s teacup against his fingers. ‘You haven’t had a case - a really good case - for weeks.’

‘Kindly don’t remind me,’ Sherlock muttered, sipping his lukewarm tea. John smiled at the sour expression on Sherlock’s face and kissed his cheek.

‘I shall expect my dinner on the table and you looking pretty for me at seven in that case,’ he teased, straightening Sherlock’s pyjama collar.

‘You shall expect a clip round the head,’ Sherlock returned, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and pulling their bodies together. ‘Must you go?’

‘Yes, I must,’ John replied, squeezing Sherlock’s arms. He kissed Sherlock’s lips. ‘Always busy, these days.’

‘I get so bored without you.’

‘No, you get bored when you’ve nothing to do,’ John corrected with a raised eyebrow. ‘Something will turn up soon enough.’

‘We can only hope.’ Sherlock let John go and went back over to his microscope. Sunlight shone into the often dingy room from the window, casting everything in a pleasant golden light. John picked up his leather doctor’s bag from the table and kissed Sherlock’s cheek again. 

‘I’ll see you later on,’ he said, squeezing Sherlock’s waist before leaving the flat and jogging quickly down the stairs.

***

‘Dr. Hooper.’ John greeted his colleague with a warm smile and a nod as he stepped off the train and saw her waiting next to a newspaper stand. 

‘Dr. Watson,’ she replied with a smile, her wavy hair pinned back off her face, grey pleated skirt falling around her knees. She wore a white blouse with delicate faux-pearl buttons and carried her own doctor’s bag tightly in her right hand. They began to walk together up the steps to the station and street above, Molly occasionally licking her lipsticked mouth in a nervous gesture.

‘How was your journey?’ John asked as they stepped onto Whitechapel road, shifting to one side to avoid the throng of people. 

‘Fine, really, only one change from Lambeth,’ Molly replied, adjusting the cuffs of her cardigan. ‘I’d not been waiting long.’

‘Oh, good.’ They set off down the main road, heading for the nearby residential streets. ‘I was worried you would be. I was slightly delayed at home.’

‘Your mad flatmate?’ Molly said with a grin.

‘Yes, my mad flatmate,’ John said, laughing. ‘Who’s on the list for today, then?’

Molly pulled a list from the pocket of her skirt. ‘Ah... Mrs Green, Mrs Taylor, Mr. Alpert, Mrs Rosen, Miss Foley, Mr. O’Doyle, Miss Popper, Mr. Baker.’

‘Eight in total?’

‘Eight in total,’ Molly confirmed as they turned a corner onto a slightly narrower road, still bearing bomb damage over a decade old. Children with skinned knees ran in and out of the rubble, singing in high-pitched voices as they chased after one another. 

‘Something ought to be done about this,’ Molly said, her eyes sad as she watched the children. ‘It’s not right, it really isn’t, ten years and the government still haven’t done anything.’

‘No,’ John agreed, imagining Mycroft’s response if John or anybody else were ever to ask him about it. He hid his smirk.

‘Poor dears,’ Molly sighed, her fingers playing with the cuffs of her cardigan.

‘They look perfectly happy,’ John said, his eyes following a boy of about eight, who stood atop the bomb rubble, brandishing a stick towards the blue sky as though it was a sword.

‘No sort of life though, Molly mumbled, tightening her grip on her doctor’s bag.

‘Perhaps,’ John said, more to appease her than anything. ‘Come along then, there’s Mrs Green to get over and done with. You do the talking - I know for a fact she’s not overly keen on me.’

They came to a stop outside a front door with a vigorously polished knocker, step and letterbox. Molly smiled and knocked.

***

‘Ooh, Sherlock, you’re in the paper again,’ Mrs Hudson said, beaming with pride and bumping her hip against Sherlock’s as she flicked the paper out to straighten it.

‘Can’t imagine why,’ Sherlock muttered, still bent over his microscope and in a filthy mood.

‘“Private detective, Sherlock Holmes--”’

‘Consulting detective--’

‘“Is said to own a Stradivarius, one of the finest makes of violin money can buy.’

‘Oh, honestly? They’re talking about my violin?’

Mrs Hudson patted the back of his hand and shushed him.

‘“A source claims that Mr. Holmes is quite the musician, having composed his own pieces as well as being able to play anything from Bach to Rodgers and Hammerstein!”’

‘What _source_?’ Sherlock spat, snatching the paper from Mrs Hudson. ‘That’s _news_ , is it?’

‘Oh, Sherlock, keep your hair on. People are interested!’

‘Why?’ Mouth a hard line of annoyance and disapproval, Sherlock continued to rifle through the paper. ‘That is plainly _not_ news that the public should have any interest in. News is the Soviets being up to something, or a nice murder, _not_ me being able to play Bewitched, Bothered and bloody Bewildered on my violin!’

Mrs Hudson patted his back soothingly and put the bottle of milk that had been sitting on the counter since John had left for work back in the fridge. ‘When’s Doctor Watson due home, dear?’

‘Ugh, not forever,’ Sherlock moaned dramatically, giving up on his experiment to loll in his armchair. ‘He’s in a love affair with the bloody NHS.’

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and continued to tidy up the kitchen. ‘He likes being useful,’ she called over her shoulder as she filled the kettle and laid two cups and saucers out.

‘He’s useful _here_!’ Sherlock moaned around two cigarettes, lighting both. ‘I need him for _my_ work.’

‘Don’t strop now, Sherlock dear, it’s unbecoming,’ Mrs Hudson said, marching over as she waited for the kettle to boil, taking one of the cigarettes off him. She shoved his legs up and perched on the arm of his chair. ‘You’re being very silly.’

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at her and breathed in a lungful of smoke. ‘Two sugars. Lots of milk.’

She shook her head and leant over to clip his ear. ‘I know,’ she said, pulling the kitchen doors half-closed as she went to make the tea.

***

‘Sherlock?’ John called, taking off his hat and jacket as he shut the front door behind him. ‘Sherlock!’

‘In the bath,’ came Sherlock’s muffled reply. John smiled and twisted the key in the lock of the front door, taking his tie off and undoing his shirt buttons as he walked towards the bathroom. He pushed the door open and entered the steamy room halfway through his next sentence.

‘Care for some compa--good _God_ , what have you done to yourself?’ John stumbled backwards, eyes widening at the sight of Sherlock lying in a bath of water that was tinged pale pink, face covered in blood, smoking a cigarette.

‘Disembowelled a pig,’ he said as though it was the only obvious solution, frowning and gesturing in the air with his cigarette.

‘Oh, right. Yeah. Of course,’ John said, eyebrows raised. ‘Silly me.’

‘Had to take the tube,’ Sherlock grumbled, picking at a fleck of blood on the back of his left hand. 

‘I’m not bloody surprised!’ John exclaimed, stripping out of his shirt and putting it in the washing hamper. ‘And don’t think for one damn seconds that it’ll be me scrubbing the sodding bath out.’

Sherlock ignored him, inhaling from his cigarette. ‘Didn’t even prove what I wanted to prove,’ he mumbled, tapping the ash off the end of his fag into a saucer on the side of the bath.

‘Scrub your bloody face,’ John ordered, throwing a bar of carbolic soap into Sherlock’s bath, creating a dunking sound and a rather large splash. ‘Then give your bloody hair a wash, get dressed, and we’ll go for fish and chips. See if there’s a spot of robbery or murder going on somewhere.’

Sherlock visibly perked up, rubbing the soap aimlessly down his arm. ‘I want a pickled egg.’

John bent to whisper to Sherlock, keeping his lips a distance from Sherlock’s red-stained ear. ‘Well, _I_ want you on your back, legs over my shoulders, begging me for more,’ he said, smirking when Sherlock began to wash himself a little faster than he had been, cigarette poking comically out from between his teeth. ‘I’ll be ready to leave in twenty minutes,’ John said, winking at Sherlock as he left the overly-cluttered, steamed-up room, closing the door behind him.

***

Night had fallen across London. On the banks of the Serpentine, a slight figure stood with a cigarette handing out of his mouth, the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

‘Spare vogue?’ a voice asked from the shadows. 

The man dipped into his pocket and offered his near-full packet of cigarettes into the darkness. The owner of the voice - a young lad with a made-up face - stepped towards the man, looking prettily up at him through his eyelashes.

‘C’mere, bijou,’ the man murmured, pulling out a cigarette and slipping it between the sweet young thing’s lips. ‘You a dilly boy?’

The boy shook his head. ‘My name’s Freddie.’

‘Freddie?’ The boy nodded as the cigarette was lit. ‘Pretty name.’

‘Dolly eek,’ the boy returned, pushing his hips forward.

‘Sure you’re not a dilly boy, chicken?’

‘Mmm.’ Freddie inhaled deeply from his fag and pressed close, his lips against the man’s ear as he exhaled. ‘Take me into that carsey over there, though, and I’m your bitch for tonight.’ He sucked wickedly on the man’s earlobe, brushing a hand over his crotch. ‘Got a name?’

‘Jim,’ the man growled, throwing his cigarette away and grabbing Freddie’s jaw with his index finger and thumb. ‘Jim Moriarty,’ he said, forcing their mouths together. His teeth clashed with Freddie’s and the boy whimpered, his pale, delicate fingers plucking at the buttons of Moriarty’s jacket. ‘Come on,’ Moriarty snarled, wrapping his fingers around the boy’s tie and snapping at his lips. Freddie moaned and staggered in the direction of the toilets when Moriarty let him go, casting an excited glance back over his shoulder. Moriarty gave it a minute before following.

‘She’s eager for it,’ a man lurking at the door to the park’s toilet block said with a camp wink, nodding inside to indicate Freddie.

‘I’ll give you ten bob to fuck off,’ Moriarty snarled immediately, his dark eyes staring the man out.

‘Ten bob and a go between those dolly lips of yours,’ the man said, reaching out to touch Moriarty’s reddened mouth. Moriarty clamped down on the man’s wrist with his fingers and shoved the hand roughly away. 

‘Try that again and I’ll break it,’ he hissed, dark eyes glaring up from under his brow.

‘Ten bob then,’ the man said, narrowing his eyes. Moriarty reached into his back pocket and drew out a ten shilling note, slipping it into the man’s hand. 

‘Run along now,’ he said. ‘I’ve business to attend to.’ 

A slow smile spread across the man’s face and he leered knowingly. Moriarty stared him out until he turned and walked away.

‘Ooh, what took you so long?’ Freddie whined when Moriarty entered the toilet block, closing and locking the door behind him with the copied key he’d had made. Freddie was in the end cubicle, bent over at the waist, head resting on the wooden wall between the stalls, two fingers inside himself and the other hand wrapped around his cock, both moving at a frantic pace.

‘Sorry, bijou,’ Moriarty purred, smiling as he stripped his jacket off, hanging it over another cubicle door and going over to join Freddie, leaving the stall door open. He sucked his thumb and pushed it into Freddie’s hole, along with Freddie’s two fingers. ‘I was ensuring we wouldn’t be disturbed.’

Freddie moaned wantonly, spreading his legs as wide as the trousers round his ankles would allow.

‘Jim, please,’ he gasped, pushing his arse backwards. ‘Please, please, please.’

‘Turn around,’ Moriarty growled, scratching his nails down the back of Freddie’s thigh. Freddie straightened up and turned around, leaning against the cubicle wall. He panted for breath, tugging Moriarty closer by his belt. ‘Out of your trousers,’ Moriarty said, unbuttoning his own slacks and pulling his cock out, biting at Freddie’s long, pale neck. Whimpering, Freddie obeyed, yelping in surprise and delight when Moriarty lifted him up and pinned him against the wooden wall.

‘Jim,’ he said with a giggle, moving his arse to stimulate Moriarty’s cock, tucked between Freddie’s bare thighs.

‘Such a lovely little thing,’ Moriarty murmured, almost to himself before he gripped Freddie’s left hip with one hand and used his left to help himself thrust into Freddie’s warm body, groaning from the feel of it.

‘Ah!’ Freddie gasped, his voice cracking.

Moriarty’s head oscillated from side to side as he adjusted, moving his hips slowly and stroking Freddie’s made-up face distractedly. Really, he couldn’t have chosen better. He began to set a punishing rhythm, one hand at Freddie’s hip to steady him, the other on his neck. ‘Touch yourself,’ he hissed. ‘Let me see you enjoy it.’

Obediently, Freddie wrapped his hand around his shaft and groaned at the onslaught of sensation he was experiencing.

‘Good boy,’ Moriarty grunted, hips moving in short, aggressive thrusts. ‘Perfect little bitch, perfect, perfect...’ His hand at Freddie’s neck moved so that his fingers were wrapped around the boy’s throat, obscuring the delicate, freckled skin. Freddie moaned and bent down to beg a kiss, lips slack and wet with saliva. ‘That’s right,’ Moriarty whispered as he licked his way into Freddie’s mouth. He tightened his grip. Freddie continued the kiss for a few seconds, but then began to squirm, panicked.

‘No, no, don’t fight me,’ Moriarty whispered, his tone as though he was speaking to a child. He thrust up harshly, grabbing Freddie’s wrists with one hand when his struggling intensified. ‘Now now,’ Moriarty ground out, sweat beading at his temples and pouring down the back of his neck as he fought to keep Freddie in place. ‘I’ve heard this is how they do it in New York. Close your eyes, just like flying,’ he purred, squeezing harder with his hand.

‘Please,’ Freddie mouthed, eyes wild, face red as he fought for breath.

‘No,’ Moriarty mouthed back with a sweet grin, slamming Freddie’s head against the cubicle wall when he started thrashing. ‘Lovely as that feels around my cock, bijou, I’d prefer it if you stopped.’

Moriarty was red in the face too from the physical effort, accent thicker, eyes harder. He slammed Freddie’s head against the wall again, groaning when the coppery note of blood filled the air. ‘Don’t make me bash your skull in, beautiful, it’ll ruin the effect.’

Freddie began to struggle violently, his hands clawing at Moriarty’s, fingernails digging into his skin. Snarling, Moriarty withdrew and pushed Freddie to the filthy tiled floor, climbing atop him, pinning his thin arms with both knees and applying pressure to his throat with both hands.

‘Not long now,’ Moriarty said, bending to ghost his lips over Freddie’s, licking at the line of black mascara that had followed a tear track down Freddie’s face. He breathed into Freddie’s mouth and grinned. ‘Not long now.’

Freddie’s struggling weakened bit by bit, Moriarty deeming it safe enough to nudge his legs open again and thrust back into him. ‘Good boy,’ Moriarty purred, thrusting furiously, his usually immaculate hair falling into his eyes as he fucked into the just-twitching boy, coming with a guttural moan at the moment Freddie’s eyes went glassy and his body went limp.

Gasping, Moriarty released the boy’s throat and sat back, his chest heaving. He gave himself a moment to recover and combed his hair back into place, staring up at the flickering fluorescent light overhead. He pulled out of the body on the floor and cleaned himself up with some tissue, buttoning his slacks up and tucking his shirt back in.

He arranged the body and left a note, unlocked the door and disappeared into the warm London night.

**Author's Note:**

> Moriarty and Freddie converse in Polari when they first meet, a form of cant slang widely used within the queer subculture in Britain at the time. More information can be found here and here.
> 
> vogue - cigarette  
> bijou - small, little, jewel  
> dilly boy - prostitute  
> dolly - pretty, nice, pleasant  
> eek - abbreviation for ‘ecaf’, backwards slang for ‘face’  
> chicken - young boy  
> carsey - toilet  
> bitch - effeminate or passive gay man


End file.
